"is it better to speak or die?"
to speak.
tell the thruth
lay it out there.

i pride myself on being someone honest
someone who says what she thinks
and feels what she feels,
unapolegetic.

i wish i chose to die
because i'm a paradox
someone who says she's honest
yet keeps most of herself locked away
hidden, too scared to talk
too close to touch.

in the never ending battle between
speaking or dying
being corageous or a coward
i die
i'm a coward

it is, indeed, curious
the transcendency of the soul,
the feeling of being here too much
and not being here at all.

it's too much
it's not enough

it's this constant uncertainty that
fuels my fire and ignites my blood.

it's the division of mind and soul
body and feeling
that pulls me from whatever dark place i find myself in
and draws me to the light
screaming:

live, live, live

it's odd, isn't it?
the more i lose myself in my head
the less i know about the real me

how can it be
that the most intrinsic thoughts in my mind
drift so far away from the person i am?

my mind is unfinished
i am unfinished

the horizon was a painting
i saw its blurried lines today
erased with the flick of a wrist
repainted with the color grey

was it an ilusion?
or was it just me?
seeing what i wanted to see
a world of my own to recreate
to mold, to shape, to paint

everything
beautifuly unfinished
everything
tragically unmoving

am i the horizon?

it's everywhere
it's written in the deepest parts of me
it's dragging me to the pits of Hell
it's consuming my own self
me vs my brain
the never ending battle
the me that's me and the other one
this other part of my being
helpless, weak, fading and yet
she takes over sometimes
how to deal?
how to be what i know i can be
and avoid what every cell tells me
i should be?
it's dark here
it's dark right now
it never ends

in these winter days,
i feel strangely nostalgic.
i think about her, i do
but it is with happiness
in my heart and, more importantly,
in my brain.

it's over,
the page is flipped
the world is spinning
and the poets keep writing.
they write about love and hate
and sadness and happiness so great
you feel you're floating and you'll never land
but that's okay because you feel safe

and i still miss her

i miss her with my every breath
i miss her with all my cells
i will miss her until the end of times

and i'm happy

i'm happy when i'm sad
i'm happy when memories of her
flood my veins and i feel as though
it will be too much and i will surely perish.

because, at the end of the day,
what is happiness?
it's a beautiful, unknown path to me

but i think that, perhaps, it is time
to get lost on it.

dear M,

it's hard to imagine really
or maybe
it's not hard at all

all the signs were there

the green enveloping your eyes
losing its breathless light
when you mentioned me

the way you used to say my name
like it was something precious
like it was yours to guard
like it was a secret only known to us
(and later, your voice losing its melody,
like it was just another noun in your vocabulary)

stranger

the way your lips no longer
sought my skin
"she's just tired", i'd think
(but oh, how i longed to feel the pressure of your tongue,
the soft kisses along my neglected neck,
your wandering hands on me, inside me, consuming me)

but then there it was:
the heartbreaking true
the undeniable reality
that your soul, once intertwined with mine,
was slowly but surely wanting to be free

and it hurt
it hurt because we were one
you and i,
here, now, in a past life, in a future life
always
(but then again, maybe not)

it was the first time i've felt robbed
like a part of me was no longer with me
because it was never mine to begin with
it was yours
yours all along, just waiting to be claimed

i will never be the same

(and maybe that's okay).